


Harry Potter kidswap: Book one

by codingcool



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: LMAO, Two Regulus Blacks, if you read homestuck it'll make sense, kid swap, which is probably why you're in the kid swap tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codingcool/pseuds/codingcool
Summary: I really like the idea of kidswap, so why not put it in Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so be gentle

Mr. & Mrs. Dursley of number eight, Rose Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Rudolphus Dursley was the director of a firm called apple barrel, which made paint. He was a big man with quite a few muscles although he did not have a mustache. Mrs. Bellatrix Dursley was boisterous and had dark curly hair and had a nearly unimaginable nose, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time baking, hoping that she can use it to spy on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chuckled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a dog reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. there was a golden retriever standing on the corner of Rose Drive, wagging it’s tail, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the dog in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Rose Drive — no, looking at the sign; dogs couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the dog out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of paints he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, paints were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Apple Barrel parking lot, his mind back on paints.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on paints that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”

“— yes, their son, Draco—”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Draco. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Draco. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Darrell. Or Dursley. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on paints that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked of

“What the fuck” whispered Mr. Dursley, and stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number eight, the first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood — was the dog he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly

The dog didn’t move. It just gave him a withering look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.

When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: “And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” e newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Dundee, and Yorkshire have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters . . .

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . .”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought . . . maybe . . . it was something to do with . . . you know . . . her crowd.” Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?” “I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly. “What’s his name again?Darrell, isn’t it?” “Draco. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. e cat was still there. It was staring down Rose Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did . . . if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind. . . . He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affect them.

. . . How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Rose Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.  
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The dog’s tail wagged and its eyes narrowed.  
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Rose Drive. He was tall, well-muscled, His hair was both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a dark blue cloak that swept the ground, and buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind rectangle spectacles.This man’s name was Tom Riddle.  
He didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the Dog, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the dog seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Riddle slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number eight, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.  
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor Pomfrey.” He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing round exactly the shape of the markings the dog had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, a red one. Her light brown hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a dog sit so stiffly.”

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor Pomfrey.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor Pomfrey sniffed angrily. “Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls . . . shooting stars. . . . Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Riddle gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”

“I know that,” said Professor Pomfrey irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.” She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Riddle here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone,Riddle?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Riddle. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a Snickers?”

“A what?”

“A Snickers. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor Pomfrey coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone —”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Dumbledore”

Professor Pomfrey flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two Snickers, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Dumbledore’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor Pomfrey, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know-Who, alright,Dumbledore, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Riddle calmly. “Dumbledore had powers I will never have.” “Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them."

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam McGonogall told me she liked my new ear muffs.”  
Professor Pomfrey shot a sharp look at Riddle and said, “The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor Pomfrey had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Riddle with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Riddle told her it was true.  
Riddle, however, was choosing another Snickers and did not answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Dumbledore turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Narcissa and Lucius Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.” Riddle bowed his head. Professor Pomfrey gasped. “Narcissa and Lucius. . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t want to believe it . . . Oh, Tom. . .” Riddle reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know . . . I know . . .” he said heavily. Professor Pomfrey’s voice trembled as she went on.

“ That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Draco. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Draco Potter, Dumbledore’s power somehow broke — and that’s why he’s gone.” Riddle nodded glumly.

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor Pomfrey. “After all he’s done . . . all the people he’s killed . . . he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding . . . of all the things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven did Draco survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Riddle. “We may never know.” Professor Pomfrey pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles.Riddle gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge.  
It must have made sense to Riddle, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor Pomfrey. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Draco to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now."

“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor Pomfrey, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Riddle — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Draco Potter come and live here!”

“It’s the best place for him,” said Riddle firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor Pomfrey faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Riddle, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Draco Potter Day in the future — there will be books written about Draco— every child in our world will know his name!”

“Exactly,” said Riddle, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?” Professor Pomfrey opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here,Riddle?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Riddle.

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor Pomfrey grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Riddle, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Riddle, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Regulus Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”  
Riddle and Professor Pomfrey bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of white-blonde hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor Pomfrey.

“Yes,” said Riddle. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Riddle?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. Well — give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.”

Riddle took Draco in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.

“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Draco and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. en, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor Pomfrey, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it —Narcissa an’ Lucius dead — an’ poor little Draco off ter live with Muggles —”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor Pomfrey whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Riddle stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Draco gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Draco’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor Pomfrey blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Riddle’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Riddle finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor Pomfrey — Professor Riddle, sir.”  
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Pomfrey,” said Riddle, nodding to her. Professor Pomfrey blew her nose in reply.

Riddle turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Rose Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a dog slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number eight.

“Good luck, Draco,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Rose Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Draco Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. . . . He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Draco Potter — the boy who lived!”


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Potter was eleven years old. And all eleven years sucked. He lived in a cupboard underneath the stairs. He was basically a servant to his Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rudolphus. And his cousin Dudley. Ugh, _Dudley_. He could practically hear is nasally voice that came from his slightly crooked nose. His cousin was such a brat! Got everything he wanted!

Draco, sighed. Shaking his head, Draco went back to cleaning the oven at his aunt's request. Well, Request was a nice way to put it, it was more of an order. His blonde hair fell softy around his face, baking oil getting in it, dirtying it up in such a way that it looked almost light brown. His grey eyes held a sharp light that came with a determined look.

His clothes, were three sizes too big, and-like his hair- were quite dirty in a way that could only come with cleaning an oven. His aunt came in, all crazy curls, wild eyes, and dark clothes. Draco waited, anxiously, for her to tell him what to do.

"Go to the cupboard. You did well."

He nodded quietly and headed quickly to the dingy, damp, cramped place that was his lovely cupboard. It was dark, and small. It was filled with old books that Dudley didn't want. And under the old camping mattress, there was a stolen library book about tarot card, and a deck of Tarot cards. His cards meant the most to him in this part of his life.

He sat on his mattress and sighed. He wanted to leave the house on Number Eight Rose Drive, it was terrible, he just wanted to be seen as a person, and not some creature that worked for over powered people and wasn't human.

However, it was his Birthday. And he was happy. He pulled out his cards. He shuffled, thought of his question "what will my adult life be like" and pulled one card. This card was Six of Swords. Harmony and ease will prevail.

He put his card back in his deck, and put it under his mattress. He laid down on it. He stared up in the dark. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He closed his eyes. He breathed in. He puffed out. In. Out. In. Out. He tried to think of what the future could hold for him.

The door of the cupboard opened. His Uncle Rudolphus was standing there, He shoved something in his face. "This came in the mail for you. Open it and reply ASAP. If you don't you'll regret it."

"Yes sir."

His uncle closed the door, and Draco turned on the light, and opened the letter.

It read as follows:

 

"Headmaster: Tom Riddle

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term Begins on 1st of September. We await your response no later than 31st of July.

Yours sincerely,

Poppy Pomfrey."

Draco sat, oddly transfixed by the letter. He brought out a piece of paper, and a pen,

"Dear Miss Pomfrey,

Thank you for admitting me to your school, I know that I'm cutting this a bit short, but I just got this, Could you come over later today to help me find a way to buy all the required things on your list.

Thanks,

Draco Potter."

After that He went out of his cupboard, his uncle snatched his reply and gave it to a....an owl? The owl flew away and the day wound down until a precise knock came on the door and his uncle let the person at the door.

He was tall and severe. There was no other way to describe her. Her hair was in a severe bun, her eyes had a severe look to them, and her mouth was in a severe line. She turned to look at Draco.

"I am Poppy Pomfrey. I suppose you are Draco Potter?"

"Ye....yes ma'am." He shook her outstretched hand.

"I will be taking you to pick up your school supplies. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes ma'am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me at davefuckinstrider.tumblr.com  
> !!!! :D


	3. Chapter 3

They went to a small pub in the middle of London, "The Leaky Cauldron". Draco, to put it simply, was unimpressed by the dingy look it had. He looked incredulously at the severe women. She did not look at him. He sighed, disappointed in the probable state of the Wizarding World.

They went in. They went to the back of the pub. They came to a brick wall. Draco sighed. He sighed again. Professor Pomfrey looked at him. She seemed to think the way he was acting was humorous, at least, that's what he thought, he couldn't tell.

"Is the wizardly world not to your fancy, Mr. Potter?"

"I just find the fact that the way you hide is to hide in a dingy way, the best way to hide is by making you seem like it's so high above them that they don't even think to go in there, not a place so far below them." Draco leaned on the wall in a considerable manner.

The professor seemed to smile for a split second. Then she pulled out her wand, tapped an ambiguous pattern on the bricks, and the wall opened up. Draco, who had still been leaning one the wall at the time, fell down.

When he got to his feet, Draco came face to face with a fist full of magnificence. The wall had opened up to show an alley, Filled with beautiful shops and colors and _people_. His eyes were hurting from everything he was seeing.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Mr. Potter." She said in a way that _might_ have sounded mischievous. Draco wasn't looking. "But before we go shopping, we have to get money."

"Do I look like I have money, Professor?"

"Your Parents were very wealthy. You just aren't allowed to access them without a magical adult present."

"Why? Why not just the people who raised me? Would that not legally benefit me more? Would it not lead to my guardians being able to raise me in a way that is better than how it is now?"

"Listen, Mr. Potter, I'm not a Lawyer, I'm a teacher, I'm a secondary Headmaster, The law is none of my business and I just follow it."

"It is your business when _your students_ are involved. Who makes the law but does not think about how it affects others?" They started moving forward in tandem.

"That's how politicians-and politics-work."

"It shouldn't though! How many other children are living with their non-magical relatives, and have no idea that magic _exists_ , until that letter arrives? Would it not be more beneficial to allow them to _at least_ telling them earlier than just before the school year starts?"

She stopped moving, as did he. She turned and faced Draco, crouched to his level, and looked him in the eyes. "Do not speak like you know everything about the magical world. You are a child. Not only are you a child, you are a child who just discovered magic is real, on his birthday. You know nothing."

They continued walking, in silence. They kept walking until they reached a tall white building.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter, to the wizarding bank."

"Is it just this one?"

"No, they have branches."

"Mm."

They walked in. Goblins worked there. Apparently. That's what the Professor called them.

"Do all goblins work here? If so that's slavery."

"Again, you know nothing."

"Then educate me."

They walked up to the teller.

"What is your business today?"

"We are here to get into Mr. Potter's Vault."

"Key?"

She shuffled around her bag that she had. And pulled out an ornate key. It had a snake-like chain wrapped around one end. She handed it to the teller, who inspected it. They nodded, and handed it back.

"Follow me."

They followed them. They got into a cart with them.  They rid in it. And they got to a vault.

They took some money, and they stopped by another to get a package for the headmaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr!!! davefuckinstrider.tumblr.com


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